BJJ Journal #1: On Training Like a Complete Fool

It's about time I start one of these journals; as I intend to study this discipline for the long-haul, some online form of accountability might just be the ticket to keep me in check. Also, it'll be good to have a record of my training history.

So, to inaugurate my new Jitsu Journal, let me begin with a little confession.

I have been training in Brazilian Jiu Jitsu for exactly a year and a month now, though for the first ten months it was generally a one- to two-class-a-week endeavour. Then in the past three months or so, I've completely ramped up the intensity of my focus and training and have been working in labs and drilling sessions with friends outside of scheduled class time, all the while training at two different schools. This is not unusual; the majority of my training partners are doing the exact same thing, and I dare say I feel incredibly blessed to have such sweet and lovely companions to help keep me motivated, challenged, and encouraged. They also give me rides ~ the good kind! These guys are the absolute bomb.

After finding a gorgeous leaf-green journal with dainty flower-shaped cut-outs, I've been fairly faithful in keeping a walk-through record of techniques learned, falling asleep at night by going through and trying to remember what we'd practiced in class, and setting up drilling and rolling sessions with my BJJ brothers-in-crime so I wouldn't be the only showing up with no one else to work with ~ especially since I have to haul all three kids on the bus to get to the gym. I'm ridiculously excited about this journey, as well as the life lessons I'm continuously learning through my immersion in the art.

And while it might seem like I'm indulging myself with a lot of time spent training, I aspire to earn my blue belt in three years or less, so it's necessary. (Also, it's absolutely nothing compared to how heavily I practiced and prepared for even regular piano lessons growing up.) The rest of my days are dedicated to my family, so I kind of feel entitled to this hobby. I'm used to working stupidly hard at anything I care about, so to not have something to really focus my attention on for my own personal growth is a disconcerting place for me to exist. No one's forcing me to learn this sport; I'm absolutely addicted. BJJ is my tension and release; while working techniques, I'm always fighting hard to improve and struggling to keep the vital, finer details in mind, and the reward of rolling is so simultaneously invigorating (during) and relaxing (afterward) there's nothing quite like it. (Well, actually, there is, but that's another post entirely... tee hee.)

Nonetheless, my obsessed fervour hit a breaking point just this past week, and I suppose it is better that it happened earlier in my grappling education than later.

Two weeks ago, I trained crazy hard and long, which wasn't necessarily the bad thing; it was just the conditions under which I placed myself that caused the most damage. In our Saturday lab that week, we repped out techniques and drills for about an hour and a half, then rolled somewhat hard at the end using a fun method of smoothly trading partners to get a good continuous flow going: since we sometimes number three in a training session, we'd have A and B roll for three minutes, then B and C for another three, then C and A, etc. That way, each person gets six minutes in with two different rolling partners, and it's a nice workout. That Saturday was magic.

The following Tuesday, it was an hour in the afternoon of repping out techniques and rolling, followed by a killer mixed-arts conditioning class that evening which was turned into a rounds class by a girl subbing in for our regular instructor. This brutally exhausting hour was followed by an hour and a half of CSW (which included some very intense rolling with my favourite ~ and only other ~ chica in that class). The night was then finished off with a supplementary lesson taught by one of my other BJJ teachers, Pecs Galore, who instructs and owns a neighbouring academy. So, by the end of that Tuesday, I had gone through about five hours of training, all done with a deliberately high level of intensity.

Then onto Thursday. In the morning, there was about a hour of rolling with two of my buddies and a fantastic new woman who has her black belt in Tae Kwon Do, followed up with half an hour of chat and working through some techniques. For some reason, it was a really good morning for me in terms of energy, so I was able to work pretty hard. Then that night, I ended up doing our regular class, as well as the advanced class at PG's studio, for a total of three and a half hours of intense training that day. By the end of the advanced class, I thought I was going to die of complete physical exhaustion. And it wasn't just all the training I'd been doing that was knocking me out. Oh no, it was me being absolutely, unreasonably stupid.

So herein lies my humiliating, shameful confession: During that week of hard training, I was also putting myself through some pretty massive caloric restriction. As in, no breakfast except for coffee, maybe a Luna bar at around 2:30 in the afternoon, and a few nibbles of dinner at around 8:30 at night. That's it. I think I was getting around 500 calories on days when I was probably expending around 2000. For my incredulous friends who disgustedly ask why, it's because... I've gained weight. Lots. Lots and lots. And lots.

Last summer, when I was training for my first mixed martial arts test, I was hovering around 110 pounds. Now, even after working off my winter hibernation sludge, I weigh in around 123 pounds. That, my darlings, is thirteen pounds gained. Thirteen pounds. That's a whole lot of meat. Back when we were living in Vancouver, I remember going to our favourite fishmonger in Chinatown, buying a pound of succulent Chilean sea bass before it was considered endangered, and enjoying the heavy weight of it in my hand. It was substantial. Multiply that by 13, and you can hopefully understand my overwhelming sense of choked horror. I am a short little girl. Thirteen bloody pounds is a shitload on my frame.

(That said, I am fully aware muscle weighs "more" than fat as it's denser and more compact. And yes, I will acknowledge my back is feeling harder than I ever remember it, my tummy usually shows cool signs of neat ridges when I'm not puffy with PMS, my clothes don't fit too differently except my once sizeable boobs have shrunken further into bee stings, and my overall self is more muscled now than ever ~ even when I was working out like a demon ten years ago, measured in with 12% body fat, and always shivering. But still. Still! THIRTEEN POUNDS!? No baby can even be left in utero at 13 pounds; the red lights would be flashing and the guerney would be screeching towards the emergency doors with doctors screaming, "Must cut this baby out STAT! It's too big!" Should I not be alarmed? Thank goodness Chef Boy likes smaller titties, or I'd be collapsing into myself with despair.) Hence, the last week of intensive exercise coupled with barely eating, drinking tons of water and coffee, and a conservative consumption of protein bars only when I thought I was going to pass out.

On top of all this silliness, I've still been maintaining my retarded pattern of four to five hours of sleep a night to make room for "my" time to read, research, and write... so going to bed regularly at 5:30 in the morning and waking up at 9:30 wreaks crazy havoc on the system, especially when one's not eating but still working out a lot. What a stunning cocktail for screaming success.

And before anyone (especially you, Girl Friday!) thinks s/he is entitled to thrash me silly for my dumbass nonsense, please know that:


a) Kinesiology and Nutrition were amongst my favourite courses in university and I strongly toyed with the idea of becoming a nutritionist once I grew up, so I know better. Is it even worse that I know better(?), and

b) I have learned my lesson. Oh, how I have learned.


Over the next week, not only did my body tell me in no uncertain terms to just fuck the hell off for what I put it through the previous week, but it also vindictively went on the rag... and I completely dissolved into a limp, boneless emotional wreck. My entire being was rendered a veritable, brainless jellyfish as my body and brain wholly smashed down in a way I hadn't experienced in ages. I am only now, ten days later, still slowly recovering. I have had absolutely no energy to do anything both last and this week, and rolling at the end of recent classes and labs has felt more of an ordeal than the usual estatic activity I normally relish with glee.

As a result of what I did to myself a week and a half ago, I ended up spending most of this week lying à la flaccid noodle under my partners, rather than swivelling my hips around manically like a macaque in heat. I think my crowning moment of shame came when everything came crashing down at end of that Thursday night, and I was rolling with a really awesome big dude at PG's school. Pinned down by around 200 pounds of immobile manflesh, I was at that point too physically and mentally exhausted to break out of his hold, so I stupidly wailed (to my utter mortification), "I'm sorry, but I am so fucking tired. I can't move!" And suddenly in my head, I began shrinking. What a complainer. What an idiot. Suck it up and keep your mouth shut, dumbass. This is all your own fault.

And you know what? It's sick and it's sad, because I'm healthy and strong and actually love my body for what it's been able to do in the past ~ running miles and miles for pleasure, squeezing out three babies completely without meds and breastfeeding them for ages, and getting me from point A to B every day without too many complaints ~ and what it's capable of doing now in grappling. It's such a struggle for me to do this sport right, but I love it so much I'm trying really hard to at least improve in tiny increments every time. So, I don't think I'll ever hurt myself like that again because it's incredibly counterproductive, and I don't think my boobs want to get any smaller from losing even more body fat.

It's not even necessarily because it's bad for my self-esteem to put my worth into numbers, but really, it's because I'm just ultimately fucking up my body, messing with my brain, and worst of all? In that state, I'm not physically optimal for training. I'm screwing myself up and being a worse partner because I become too tired to move, am incapable of concentrating properly, and can not access my energy and mental reserves when rolling. Such a waste of precious training time.

So, at this very second, I am eating. It's a chocolate-mint Zone protein bar, mind you, but at least it's something at 4:54 in the morning. No more dumbass training methods necessary, please. I've learned my lesson and am deeply repentant, hopefully somewhat wiser, and mercifully on the road to sweet recovery. That's at least one BJJ lesson learned.

And there's an infinity ~ plus one ~ more to go.




(photo credit: This lovely snap was taken off Kernacktur's flickr site.